Fix Me
by Quietlymischievous
Summary: It was a cold and rainy night somewhere in Eastern Europe
1. Chapter 1

Safe! He was finally safe. He leant back against the bolted door and slowed his breathing as his heart continued to pound in his chest. His pursuers had been relentless and he had escaped by the skin of his teeth. If it had not been for the young girl, he might have been caught.

It had been a mistake to go out in his state, but he had been desperate. The knife wound in his thigh had to be treated. The edges were beginning to redden and the ooze of blood had never quite stopped. Running had brought a fresh ring of crimson to the surface of his jeans, joining the darker stain already there. Now, he was feeling feverish and achy. He had ignored the prodromal symptoms too long. If John were there, he would have berated him for letting himself get in such a state, then cleaned and closed the wound with his precise stitches.

Breaking into the pharmacy had been easy, getting back to the grimy, dimly lit bolt-hole had been a different matter entirely. Moriarty's men seemed to be everywhere, but he had kept his head down and his hood up. Thankfully, he had gotten back relatively unscathed.

He shook two capsules from the bottle, gulping them down and following them with a swig from the bottle of Coke he had stolen along with the antibiotics and supplies. He didn't know how anyone tolerated the sugary fizzy drink. It made his teeth ache. Oh, God, how he wished for a cup of tea and some dry clothes… and a bath... and...John...

Pushing his thoughts aside, he slid his blood-soaked jeans off and carried his parcel of goods to the bathroom. By the light of a single candle, he inspected his wound again. Yes, there was an increasingly red ring around the wound's perimeter. If he didn't get it cleaned and the edges closed, he was not going to be able to continue his eradication of Moriarty's network. He had lost too much already for it end before it had really begun: the work, his reputation, his friends and... John. He shook his head, the solitude must be making him sentimental, or maybe it was the fever. John was his friend and flatmate, nothing more.

Pouring the antiseptic over the gash in his leg, he winced at the sting. Better to endure a little discomfort now than have to go to the hospital and risk being identified. When the bubbling and fizzing seemed to slow, he pulled out the bottle of saline solution and rinsed the breach thoroughly. He had hoped to find liquid skin adhesive, but apparently it was not available outside a hospital or clinic (or John's personal stash under the bathroom sink). He had settled instead for a tube of antibiotic cream and the tape strips commonly used to close cuts and minor surgical wounds. The strips weren't ideal for an area that was subjected to the pulling and tugging that accompanied movement, but if he put enough of them on and covered it with a bandage, maybe it would hold. John wouldn't approve, but, needs must when the devil drives.

Exhausted and morose, he left the remnants of his ill-gotten goods where they lay and crawled onto the pallet in the corner of the main room. Leaning against the wall, he pulled out his phone, not the burn phone he had been using and replacing over and over since leaving London, but his phone from before. Mycroft had retrieved it from the roof of St. Bart's and given it to him before he departed. The GPS feature had been disabled and he wouldn't dare make a call from it, but it had his music. He slipped his ear buds in and scrolled through the playlists. Mozart, Brahms, Wagner, Holst, he passed over them all, opting for something more contemporary. He wanted something to suit his mood. His thumb hovered over the screen a second before choosing. He leant back and let the notes wash over him.

When you try your best, but you don't succeed

When you get what you want, but not what you need

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse

And the tears come streaming down your face

When you lose something you can't replace

When you love someone, but it goes to waste

Could it be worse?

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you

His thoughts kept returning to the same man. John had called him a machine and he had responded that being alone protected him. "No, friends protect people," John had thrown back at him. He wished he could tell John that he did understand, that this was why he was in this place, protecting his friends. Protecting the man he secretly... loved...

And high up above or down below

When you're too in love to let it go

But if you never try you'll never know

Just what you're worth

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you..

He felt the burning in his eyes and pressed the pads of his fingers there. He was Sherlock Holmes and he did not cry. He had more important things to worry about than the ache deep in his chest for the man he wanted to be more than his friend.

Tears stream down your face

When you lose something you cannot replace

Tears stream down your face and I

Tears stream down your face

I promise you I will learn from my mistakes

Tears stream down your face and I

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you…

The ping of the text alert surprised him. He paused the music and wiped at his cheeks. He had not received a text or call on that phone since before he…fell. He and Mycroft had agreed it was not to be used for such. The message he saw warmed his heart.

Don't

Be

Dead! -JW

He hadn't been forgotten. Maybe the fascination wasn't all one sided and there was a chance for something more. All he had to do was get through this.

Notes:

The lyrics contained within are not mine. They are from the song Fix You by Coldplay. If you haven't heard it, check it out.


	2. Chapter 2

Just a few minutes earlier in London...

John shifted in the chair, staring at the items on the table before him. This was a bit not good. He wondered what Ella would have to say on the matter. He didn't usually drink more than the pint or two on a night out with Stamford or Lestrade. But, this was his third and the last one in the flat; he wouldn't be going out for more. He knew the consequences of overindulgence, he only had to look at his sister, Harry, for that. The loaded gun, on the other hand, was a bit more concerning. Well, at least, he wasn't limping. Sherlock had cured that, once and for all.

Oh God, Sherlock! How he missed that mad, nutter of a man. Exhilarating footraces across London's rooftops, rapid-fire deductions over a corpse and severed heads in the refrigerator, he missed them all. Mostly he missed the man, the self-proclaimed sociopath that laughed with him at crime scenes and played midnight violin serenades when nightmares woke his friend. How he… loved… yes, loved… that man.

Now, Sherlock was gone and all he had was this love that had never been spoken of and a heart full of regret. He found it difficult to express his feelings. Yet, he deeply regretted not telling Sherlock exactly how he felt about him. He didn't even know if Sherlock liked blokes, or anyone for that matter, in that way. Still, he wished he had, at least, told him thank you for saving him from that drab bedsit, where he had just barely been existing prior to their meeting. Sherlock had pulled him out of the deep, dark depression he had been drowning in and showed him the light again. If only he could see him one last time and say what he should have said so many times. If only the man wasn't dead.

John shook his head and wiped at the moisture that threatened to fall from his lashes. This had to stop, he couldn't keep doing this, brooding over words unsaid. He got up and chucked the empty bottle in the bin before picking up the gun and sliding the safety back on. Maybe he should give it to Greg, get it out of sight and temptation. For now, he would put it back in the case at the back of the closet instead of in his bedside table.

John sat heavily on the edge of his bed, too tired to undress. Instead, he slipped off his shoes and slid under the duvet, fully clothed. He shifted uncomfortably when something in his pocket poked him in the hip and reached down to pull out his phone. Thoughtfully he swiped the screen with his thumb and scrolled through the pictures.

Sherlock had always glared when he tried to snap a picture of him, but there had been that one time… The smile on Sherlock's face had been perfect. They were on a post case high, seated at their favourite table at Angelo's when he had made some flippant comment about Mycroft's umbrella and Sherlock had begun laughing and couldn't stop. That was the day he had decided he loved the man.

John stroked the laugh lines in the picture. Oh, how he wished he could have told Sherlock how he really felt. If only he wasn't dead. If that great, gorgeous genius walked into the room, at that very moment, he would embrace him and tell him how much he loved him. If only he wasn't dead.

Another swipe of his finger and his contacts list came into view. A minute later, the text soared from his phone to wherever Sherlock's phone had ended up after his leap from the roof. If only…

Don't

Be

Dead! -JW


	3. Chapter 3

Safe! He was finally safe. He leant back against the bolted door and slowed his breathing as his heart continued to pound in his chest. His pursuers had been relentless and he had escaped by the skin of his teeth. If it had not been for the girl, he might have been caught.

* * *

"Damn it," she mumbled. A drop of rain landed on the back of her neck and left a frigid trail as it rolled down her spine. She shivered and pulled the tattered coat tighter against the wind and rain. Two more days, Val had promised he would pay her in two days and she could leave this hell hole for somewhere warmer in the world. Roseau, Nassau, Miami, anywhere in equatorial Africa, she didn't care just as long as it was warm.

Home. In a rare moment of nostalgia, the thought crossed her mind before she could push it away. She wished she could go… She shivered again, but not from the cold. Best not think of home right now. Besides, London was hardly warm this time of year and there was no one there she could go home to. That life was gone forever.

No good would come from getting distracted, not when MI6 and the CIA were breathing down her neck. They only wanted to talk to her because she had witnessed the shooting of one of their agents. However, if they pulled her in for questioning, there was more than a good chance they would recognise her for the criminal she was. So, here she was bored and miserable in a dirty slum, waiting for payday. She should not have come out, but she was hungry and had eaten the last tin of beans for breakfast.

She usually didn't stop to help strangers, but something about the desperation of the man compelled her to pull him into the darkened doorway. "Get down. I'll tell you when it's safe to come out," she said in her best Russian, knowing that most everyone in the former Soviet States spoke at least a little of it. He didn't hesitate, but limped into the cold dark room and huddled in the corner, keeping a death grip on the plastic sack with the pharmacy logo. There was just enough light coming in through the grimy shop window to make out his features and she stifled a gasp. She hadn't seen that face in person for over ten years.

At the sound of approaching footsteps, she ducked behind the counter and held her breath. She glanced over to where the man sat, hoping that the shadows covered enough of her face that he would not recognise her. Though she thought he was hardly at his best today. His jeans were soaked through with blood and his cheeks held a flush of fever. He didn't look well at all.

After five minutes, she ran her fingers through her spiky blue hair and blew out a breath. The street outside had been quiet for some time. She motioned for the man to stay put. Looking down both sides of the street before stepping out, she was pleased to note it was deserted.

She ducked back into the abandoned shop and crooked a finger in his direction, "Come now. Go left, cut behind the old church at the end of the street, and walk through the cemetery. Go out the maintenance gate below the big crypt with the weeping angel statue. That will put you in an alley that will let out one street back from the main road. There won't be any CCTV coverage if you stay on that street. Then you can head in whatever direction you need to get home. Good luck."

She turned up the collar of her coat and stepped out into the rain, not giving him the time to respond. She walked to the corner before looking back. Despite the gash in his leg and the infection that wracked his body, he was almost to the church. Tears stung her eyes and she wiped at them with her sleeve. "I love you, Lock!" she whispered in his direction.

If you are interested in who she might be and what her story is, her life is being told in my other story: **You Know What Happened to the Other One.** It can be found in its most recently updated form on AO3, or you can see it here as I am slowly transferring it over.


End file.
